Requiem
by Sahara Storm
Summary: [Oneshot, Fred and George] George Weasley is sixty three years old, and he is leading a very full life. [Post DH.]


**Title:** Requiem  
**Fandom:** Harry Potter  
**Character/Pairing:** George-centric. Fred and George. Implied George/Lee and Fred/Angelina.  
**Rating: **PG.  
**Word Count: **1,020  
**Summary: **George Weasley is sixty-three years old, and he is leading a very full life.  
**Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Deathly Hallows. **Angst.  
**Notes:** This is the first HP fic I'm doing that deals with this generation. Whoo.  
**Dedication:** For Whendee. Happy birthday, darling! I hope this helps your day be that much more shiny. :333 And, I wasn't sure if you liked the twins… but I hope you do! X  
**Disclaimer:** Insert witty denial of ownership here.

* * *

George Weasley is sixty-three years old.

He doesn't look it, though. All of his wrinkles are laugh lines, his eyes sparkle with a mischief that is decades old, and the broad silver streaks in his hair only add to his charm, thank you very much. And never mind his bad knee; he is still quite spry. He's got things to do, a shop to run, inventions to perfect, loads of great-nieces and nephews to tease!

George Weasley is sixty-three years old, and has lead (_is leading_) a very full life. He is leading a very full life.

* * *

Lee passed on a decade or so ago. One minute, he was sitting in the stands next to George, roaring out his frustration at the Chudley Canons' beater who had just missed a bloody _perfect_ opportunity to bludgeon the skies out of the other team's chaser, (in a completely legal move, of course) and the next, he was screaming victory alongside thousands of other fans as the Canons made the goal anyway.

And then he slumped over.

He too, died with a smile.

George misses him, of course. Without him, there is that much less laughter, that much less merry-making, and no one to help him set up the pranks at the Weasleys' Christmas dinner (Rose and Hugo offer, but the little'uns have no style or flair). His bed is cold, his heart grows heavier and things at the shop will never be quite the same. He misses him, but yet…

George Weasley is sixty-three years old, and is leading a full life, but he still has room for some envy.

* * *

He quite likes it when the family gets together. The Burrow comes alive, full to bursting with all the branches and arms of the Weasley clan. Fleur, Ginny and Hermione take over the kitchen, with Mum's portrait sternly supervising them with a twinkle in her eyes. Rose, Albus and the others help out where they are allowed (Molly Weasley always has, and always will run a tight kitchen). Most of the men commune in the recently added library, drinking and chatting, delighting Dad's portrait with whatever new Muggle invention they had to show him. (He exclaimed over Harry's new video phone for weeks.) The numerous children run amok, in the hallways, the bedrooms, the parlour, the garden, having fun and making mischief, giving their caretakers hell, just as children always should.

George sits next to Ron, knocking back a bottle of firewhiskey as his brother teases him about the latest injury he's gotten thanks to an experiment gone wrong. But really, he hadn't used that pinky finger much, anyway.

"Only you, mate, only you," Ron chuckles, some of his freckles disappearing into the folds of his laugh lines. "A bloody _finger_! What'll be next?"

"Yeah," George laughs back, passing a hand where his left ear used to be. "Pretty soon they'll be ordaining me."

Ron does not get it at first; his brow furrows and he regards his older brother strangely. George's heart clenches, and he does not allow himself to think of the many quips one could reply with.

Soon enough, Ron roars with laughter, and claps him on the back. George grins, and not for the first time, it doesn't reach his eyes.

It's not the same.

* * *

Angelina stops by every once in a while. They both know why, but neither of them says.

After the pleasantries and the small talk and the awkward silence, he always drags out the photo album, and they look at pictures together. He feels rather ridiculous about it; he is sixty-three years old, for goodness' sake. He is George Weasley, even worse, and age notwithstanding, he knows how to show a girl, a mate, _anybody_, a good time.

But this is Angelina. And even after forty-four years (but who's counting?) he still cannot bring himself to joke with her. He cannot help but feel uncomfortable when she looks him full in the face, searching for something she won't find.

She is ageing quite well, he notices as she turns the pages of the album. Her brown fingers are still slim and elegant, and the lines and Quidditch calluses that mark them give them character. She keeps her hair neat and styled, and the youth of the chaser within her still shines. She remains as pretty as ever, even when her face is frozen with shock and horror seconds after she calls him by the wrong name.

Pain seizes his heart, but he smiles softly, and forgives her without being asked to.

George Weasley is sixty-three, and he is tired.

* * *

A few years later, George Weasley is sixty-five years old and he is dying.

He hopes that when he is gone, they will all be able to laugh about it, at least in a few years. He was tinkering in the shop's basement once again when one of his experiments blew up in his face (quite literally). One of the plastics that he'd been using was comprised partially of a toxin that was apparently quite deadly when inhaled. He really should have listened to Mum when she warned him against buying from Muggle suppliers.

George had been trapped down there in the smoke and the detritus for over an hour before Hugo found him. Now, there is nothing to be done for him, in the Wizarding or Muggle world. These are his last moments.

Lying on the hospital bed, lucidity slipping away with every moment that passes, he looks up at all the teary, forlorn faces surrounding him. His brothers and sister, all too reluctant to say goodbye again. Hermione and Fleur, leaning on their husbands, kerchiefs to their faces. Countless red-haired progeny, not a one relishing the thought of losing Uncle George. The good ol' saviour of the Wizarding world himself, trying to stay strong for them all. He did that quite well.

He looks up at all the teary, forlorn faces, and tries very hard to look solemn. Someone is dying, after all.

On the inside, though, he is smiling.

George Weasley is sixty-five years old, and he dies with a smile.

* * *

**Notes:** Apparently Jo said something about George getting married and having a kid that he named after Fred? Yeah, I IGNORED THAT.

Hope you enjoyed, Whendee, my love.

Ask me anything you want to about this fic, really. There is hidden meaning EVERYWHERE. And, I'd love to hear what you think. :)


End file.
